


Green Flare

by missazrael



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Corsetry, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage, Riding Crops, Safe Sane and Consensual, Smut, oh my god heteros in my Ao3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 14:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6988789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There is one thing the people say, though, that’s certainly true, although with a caveat: no one parties like Survey Corp parties.</i>
</p><p>Nanaba knows the best ways to relax after a mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Flare

It’s said, and accepted as general truth, that every division attracts different types. People like to say that the Garrison soldiers just want someone to tell them what to do, and so flock to the Garrison, called in by the siren song of Dot Pixis and following orders. They say that the Military Police is an enormous, contentious nest of alpha dogs, all jockeying and fighting for control, and that Nile Dok spends his days constantly putting out brush fires brought about by too many hotheaded people in too close a space. And that leaves the Survey Corps for everyone else, who fall in line behind Erwin Smith and his bizarre brand of motivation and encouragement, the kind of people who love a strong leader more than their own self-preservation.

It’s all nonsense, Nanaba knows. Certain types might be attracted more to certain positions, but it takes all kinds to form a functioning army, and she doubts that any one type dominates in any of the divisions. There is one thing the people say, though, that’s certainly true, although with a caveat: no one parties like Survey Corp parties.

It calls to mind wild, drunken revelry after a mission, but that’s also complete nonsense. Missions too often end with friends and trusted comrades dead or missing, and no one wants to celebrate when coming home from that, not when the spit from gathered civilians still dries on their cloaks and the cries of anguish and death wails of their friends still ring in their ears. No, the night after a mission is for sleeping, or quietly crying into your pillow, alone in the dark, listening to your heartbeat and wondering what it will be like when it finally winds down, ticking into nothingness like a clock gone unwound.

The _next_ night, though… there is some validity to the theory if the people are talking about the _next_ night.

Nanaba smoothes her hands down the lines of her corset, her rough, work-hardened fingers gliding over the opulent fabric. It’s silk, embroidered and sewn by hand, the ridges made from the bones of long-extinct mammals that once lived in the water, mammals that sound like fantasy to a woman raised in the arid, dry regions of the west. The seamstress sewed tiny beads of jet, so dark that seem to absorb the light until they catch it just right and send it sparkling back out into the world, cunningly across the design, and Nanaba knows she glitters when she walks. Especially in candlelight, which she’s sure she’ll be walking into. The corset is the most expensive thing she owns, saved for and purchased in Sina before being carefully wrapped and presented to her, and she feels like someone else when she wears it. She’s never been one for fancy, indulgent things, but she’d almost cried the first time she’d seen the corset, the first time she’d touched the fabric—silk, it’s called silk, and comes from the cocoons of worms—and Mike had been afraid he’d offended her and done something wrong.

Nanaba pads to the door of her quarters—as a senior member of the Corps, she’s given the privilege of privacy, although she’d been quietly placed next to Mike’s quarters, with a door connecting their two walls—and knocks on it lightly. “Are you ready?” she asks, pitching her voice low.

Rustling from the other side of the door, and then his voice, soft and deep, comforting, like the first time Nanaba had seen snow. “Yes.”

Nanaba draws her back straight, takes a deep breath—she’s naturally slender and small, and doesn’t need to lace the corset tight to have it look beautiful on her—and opens the door.

The room is festooned with candles, as she knew it would be, all burning and casting their flickering light on the walls. For a man who has devoted his life to violence and fighting, Mike has an eye for beauty, and for creating tiny spaces that are a glimpse into a better world, and it’s a skill he only shows to those he trusts. She takes a moment to soak in the beauty of it, the way candlelight makes everything soft, the way it smoothes out the world’s edges, then turns her attention to the man kneeling on the floor in front of her. 

The light is kind to him too, turning the downy hair on his limbs and chest into burnished gold. He has his head down subserviently, looking at his hands, clasped between his knees and tied loosely with the straps of his gear, but he raises his eyes to look at her. His fringe hangs down around his cheekbones, hiding the top half of his face, but a faint smile turns up the corners of his mouth when he sees her, and Nanaba has to fight to not smile back.

“Did I say you could look at me?” she snaps, and Mike immediately looks down again, murmuring an apology under his breath.

She strides forward, her riding crop, still tinted with the perfume of riding her horse yesterday, swinging in her hand, and stops directly in front of him. She lifts the crop and lays it on his shoulder, smiling when she sees the muscles in his arms ripple with anticipation. “You’ll look at me when I _tell_ you to look at me. Understood?”

“Yes.” She can smell him now, can smell the sweat starting to leak from his pores, and it’s like a heady perfume to her. She’s not sure when it happened, but at some point, Mike’s sweat came to smell like safety and home, and she sleeps the best when she can drift off with it lingering in her nose.

“Good.” She traces the tip of the crop down his arm, over the heavy bulges of his muscles, over the scars to which she knows every story. He’s beautiful, this man of hers, especially when he’s being gentle, especially when he asks her to be rough. She moves the crop over his elbow and to his ribcage, letting it bump over every rib, making sure to lighten her touch at the third to last rib, the one that got broken by a grasping titan hand years ago and never quite healed right. He stays as still as he can, although he can scarcely hide his little trembles of anticipation. He’s like a puppy, she thinks fondly, a puppy who can barely keep from wagging his tail.

She stops the crop on his hip, letting it rest against the jut of bone, on the little ledge where his abdomen joins his legs. “Green flare?”

Mike looks up at her fully for the first time, and she sees that his eyes are blown wide, his pupils huge in the dim light and his expression taut with excitement. “Green flare.”

“All right.” She lifts the crop and brings it down on his hip, swinging her arm wide, putting most of her scant weight behind it. The sound of it landing is shockingly loud in the enclosed space, and he jumps at the impact. Nanaba sees him bite at his lower lip and knows that it’s not in pain but with pleasure, and in the shadows between his legs, something starts stirring to life. 

She smacks him again, peppering his skin with the crop, watching as it raises red marks across his body. They’ll go away, she knows, fading back into him as quickly as they’re raised, but it’s not the pain he enjoys, or even the marks themselves. It’s the submission, the loss of control, the trust he puts in her to not damage him and to let him let go. His eyes stay closed as she beats on him, as sweat starts to ooze from her pores from the exertion of it, and the look on his face is relaxed, beatific. Nanaba has seen him in all sorts of situations over the years, both wonderful and horrifying, and he never looks as calm and peaceful as he does when he’s naked in front of her, his hands tied together, as she raises stinging welts on his shoulders and back. He looks, she thinks as she pauses, panting, like a forgotten saint from a forgotten religion, from a time when people worshipped men and not the goddesses of the wall.

“Green flare?” she asks, already knowing the answer but wanting to check in.

“Green flare,” he answers immediately, his eyes still closed, his hands lifted to his chest, held in front of him in a gesture like supplication. She can see that he’s fully erect now, his cock huge and swaying in front of him, and has to swallow as she feels moisture trickle down her thigh. She knows that cock, knows its weight and heft and how it feels inside her, but seeing how she affects him does it to her every time.

He’s smiling, and she knows he’s smelled her arousal. That used to make her self-conscious, and even ashamed, until she realized that he used it to make sure she was enjoying herself, and never proceeded until he could smell the dampness between her legs. He’s also told her that he loves her smell, that she smells like fruit and sunshine and a rare spice called vanilla, something he’s only tasted once but never forgot. 

Nanaba lifts one leg, clad in her work boot—he’d offered to buy her a pair of boots to match the corset, tall and elegant and with a heel that would have her rise six inches higher in the air, but she’d refused, not wanting to risk twisting her ankle while trying to totter around in them—and puts her foot on his shoulder. She’s always had flexible hips, ever since she was a little girl riding horses in the desert, and she hasn’t lost that flexibility with age, although, admittedly, she uses the skill much differently now. She watches as his nostrils flare, as he breathes deep her scent, and touches his cheekbone with the tip of her crop.

“Yellow flare,” he says, his eye squeezing shut, and she immediately drops the crop down onto his shoulder. He relaxes, and she leans in, touching his face with her fingertips instead, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Green flare?”

“Green flare.”

“Then you know what I want.”

He does. He shuffles forward on his knees, and Nanaba stretches her leg to the side, opening herself up and exposing herself to him. He leans in, eager and unafraid, and her hand on his face moves up into his hair, fisting its long, smooth strands between her fingers. He keeps his hands down, still tied together, in front of him, and nudges at her folds with the tip of his nose. Mike is self-conscious about his nose, Nanaba knows, both its size and its ability to smell just about anything, but he has no qualms about using it to slowly open her up, to move her soft, fragile lips out of the way and make a path for his tongue. Any nose that can do that is okay by Nanaba, and she sighs when she feels the rounded, fleshy bump of his nose against the top of her cleft and his tongue sliding along her inner ridges.

“Good puppy,” she tells him, and watches through heavily lidded eyes as Mike shudders with pleasure, delighting in the sweet name that only she is allowed to call him.

His eyes are closed, lost behind his shaggy hair and the barely perceptible curve of her abdomen, and Nanaba does the same, closing her eyes and keeping her grip on his hair. Mike’s tongue is just as skilled as his nose, and a tiny, breathy moan escapes Nanaba as he burrows deep between her legs, parting her with his tongue and sliding it back and forth inside her, slow at first, and then faster as she feels herself gush wetness onto his face and down his chin. She’d been embarrassed about that, once, until she realized how much Mike enjoyed having it on his face, how much he likes the slickness glistening across his cheeks.

Mike hums, low and pleased, and it vibrates through her, making the most sensitive parts of her body thrum. It’s not enough, his tongue inside her and his nose at the top of her cleft isn’t enough, and Nanaba tugs on Mike’s hair, pulling his head up. She feels his tongue slide free and start to curl up the inside of her lips, and she taps the crop on his hip, a warning tap. Mike purrs, the vibration running up through her foot and all the way to her thigh, and then his tongue is on her, lapping and caressing where she needs it most, and the world around Nanaba fades away.

She had had other lovers, before Mike: a boy during training, in the barracks, who joined the Garrison; a childhood sweetheart who’d held her hand and kissed her on the cheek once during a rare summer rain; even another member of the Survey Corps, who’d been lost on his second mission and whose Wings of Freedom she’d brought home for his family. But none of them had been like Mike, none of them had understood her, had listened to her, had known exactly what to say without saying a single word. Her whole life, people have described Nanaba as odd, otherworldly, and only Mike has never cared about that, has viewed it as a blessing and something to be treasured.

Mike is patient, Mike is kind, opening her up slowly, leading her to heights she’d never known existed before meeting him, and Nanaba can feel tension building in her abdomen with every swipe of his talented tongue. She’s never been a very vocal person, but Mike knows exactly what to do to make her scream, and she cries out as he pushes her over the edge, thrusting her hips forward and curling in around his head, her fingers tight in his hair. Mike squares his shoulders forward, giving her something to brace herself on, and holds perfectly still as she rides it out, as the cataclysmic pleasure breaks her apart. When she thinks it’s over, when she’s slowly starting to put herself back together, Mike moves his tongue again. Just a little flick, calculated and precise, and she’s coming undone all over again, moaning like an animal and trembling all over. She swats him with her crop once the shaking dies down, and he chuckles, shifting his face to the side and nuzzling at her thigh.

“Bad dog,” she tells him breathlessly, pulling her foot off his shoulder and settling it on the floor, but there’s deep affection in her voice, and Mike smiles beatifically up at her. Her corset, tied loosely to begin with, has twisted to the side, and one of her breasts is free, balancing on the top of the silken structure and moving up and down with every breath she takes. Mike watches it, licking his lips, and she looks between his legs. Still aroused, if anything harder than he was before, and she taps the crop on his shoulder to get his attention.

“Look what you’ve done,” she tells him, once he’s looking at her again. She uses her free hand to gesture at her twisted corset, at her flushed cheeks, at the fluids shining on her thighs. “What are you going to do about it? Speak, Puppy.”

“Whatever you want me to do,” he rumbles in response, and there’s a simple, wordless hunger in his eyes, glittering from behind his hair, that makes Nanaba feel like she isn’t done with coming undone quite yet.

She swats his shoulder again, just for good measure, before turning around and showing him her back, showing him the tangled ribbons of her corset. “Untie me.”

For such a large man, Mike’s hands are surprisingly deft and skilled, even when his wrists are tied together, and it only takes him a few moments before the corset is whispering down Nanaba’s narrow hips. He helps her get it over her legs, and she steps out of it before turning around. “Put it away now,” she tells him, gesturing at the pile of silk and ribbons and beads.

Mike rises to his feet, and she winces when she hears both his knees pop like rifle fire. Even six months ago, they weren’t that loud, and she chews her lower lip as she watches him gather the corset and lay it carefully on the dresser. He’s getting older; they both are, and she has her own aches and pains that greet her every morning, old injuries that never quite healed right and make themselves known months and years later. _How much longer_ , she wonders, as he turns and stands before her, his hands clasped in front of him but unable to hide the way his cock rises in front of him, strong and proud and unbowed by age. _How much longer can we keep going, and keep coming back to each other in the end?_

Mike must see something in her face, because his brow draws down, his expression shifting to concern, and he takes a step forward. “Nanaba?”

She shakes her head, opening her hand and letting her riding crop fall to the floor. She goes to him, and he holds up his hands, has them waiting for her as she undoes the straps holding them together. As soon as his arms are free, he has them open, and she moves into them, reaching up and clasping both her hands behind his neck, pressing herself against the warm fur of his chest.

“Love me,” she whispers, and flexes the muscles in her thighs before jumping upwards, pulling herself up with her arms. Mike catches her, easily supporting her weight, and Nanaba climbs him like a tree, hoisting herself up on his shoulders, wrapping her legs around his thick waist. Mike clings to her, his broad hands spreading out under her thighs and ass, and Nanaba grips his hair in both hands as she dives down to kiss him. She tastes herself on his lips, her own salt and arousal, and his nose leaves faint trails of damp behind where it touches her cheek.

Mike carries her to the bed, but she balks when he tries to lay her down across it, not wanting to let go. Mike pauses, then sits on the edge of the bed, spreading his knees wide to make a seat for her, and Nanaba hums with approval as he settles her onto his lap. She can feel his erection, insistent and so hot it almost feels like it’s burning her, poking at the back of her thigh, and she untangles her legs from around his waist, kneeling over his lap. Her knees are better than his, she can support her weight on them for longer.

“Are you ready?” he asks, as she rises up onto her knees, taller than him for once and enjoying the sensation of looking down at him. Mike is well-endowed and knows it, his cock enormous and thick, so large that more than one woman has seen it for the first time and gotten cold feet. 

Nanaba nods; she’s still wet down below, relaxed and aroused simultaneously, and she reaches between them, wrapping her slender hand around him. He’s liquid velvet in her hand, smooth and heated, already leaking fluid himself, and she rubs her thumb over the top of him, spreading the slick around. Mike bites his lip and his eyelids flutter as she does, his arms tightening around her waist. Nanaba gives him a few pumps with her hand, watching his face, and the look of pure, unbridled pleasure on it makes her want him even more. She shifts her grip, holding him at the base, and he loosens his hold on her as she relaxes the muscles in her legs, lowering herself down onto him.

The first thrust is always intense, always brings with it an edge of pain; he’s simply too big for it not to. Nanaba breathes through it, giving in to the feeling of being held apart, of his enormity pushing into her, opening her, and sighs when she settles onto his lap. She sits there a moment, getting used to the simple, immense stretch that he causes, and Mike, knowing what she’s doing, peppers her face with light, quick kisses, giving her the time she needs.

It doesn’t take her long; they’ve done this so many times that the pain is practically an old friend, heralding more pleasure to come, and after a few moments, Nanaba flexes her legs and rises up off his lap, feeling the slick tug as he slides out of her, and pushes back down onto him, gasping as he thrusts into her again. Mike lets her set the rhythm, waits until she’s fallen into something consistent, something rhythmic, and then he changes his hold on her, moving his hands under her thighs, and starts pushing back, driving himself deeper inside her than she could manage on her own. She can feel him hitting something inside her, a barrier that he can’t penetrate, and knows that she’s filled completely, that he’s occupying every single bit of space inside her, with nothing to spare. The knowledge makes her moan, and she drops a hand between them, rubbing at the spot where his tongue had been before, coaxing herself towards a third explosion.

Mike watches as she touches herself, his pupils wide and dilated, and their rhythm starts to falter as they approach the finish line together. She hears his breath grow ragged, feels his hands squeeze on her hips, and with a strangled cry, Nanaba releases before he does. He follows closely behind her, the squeezing of her internal walls enough to have him slumping against her, his face in her neck, panting and grunting as his heat and wet fills her.

They peel themselves apart after a few moments, and Mike collapses onto the bed, pulling her down with him. Nanaba arranges herself with her back to his chest, and Mike tosses a brawny arm around her waist, drawing her close and nuzzling the back of her head. They come down together, hearts and lungs and muscles slowly relaxing, the world coming back into focus around them. Some of the candles in the room have burnt out, casting long shadows on the walls, and Mike pulls a blanket up and over them as the sweat dries on their skin.

“Mike?” 

“Hmmm?” He kisses the back of her neck, and Nanaba feels pleasant little chills run up and down her spine.

She takes one of his hands on both of hers, running her fingers between his, playing with the hair on the back of his wrist. “Have you ever thought… about quitting?”

He turns his hand, catching one of hers and cupping it like a baby bird fallen from its nest. He knows, without asking, exactly what she’s asking. “What would we do?”

Nanaba likes that, that he says _we_ , and turns a little in his arms, so she can see a sliver of his face, one of his large, dark eyes. “We could go somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. Peaceful. Maybe breed horses or something.”

He ponders that, and nods his head once. “Or something. Maybe…” He lets go of her hand, tripping his fingers up the length of her arm and then down her side, settling on her hip. “Maybe have a baby?”

Nanaba flushes and looks away; he always has been able to see through her better than anyone else. “If you wanted one?”

He kisses the back of her shoulder. “Only if it’s with you.”

“Oh.” She turns in his arms, fully facing him, and puts her arms around his neck. “So yes, then.”

Mike’s hands are broad and strong on her back, big enough to fit completely around her waist. “Yes. But not yet.”

“No.” She shakes her head in agreement. “Not yet.” 

There’s still so much to do, so much that the Survey Corps hasn’t accomplished yet. She knows that Mike will follow Erwin to the ends of the earth, to the farthest corners of the walls, to help him see his dream reached. She just hopes, as she drops into a doze, cradled against Mike’s warm, fuzzy chest, that they can see that dream reached, and that she and Mike can go find somewhere safe. Somewhere where it’s always a green flare.

**Author's Note:**

> You know what is sadly lacking? Mike/Nanaba smut that is solely about them is sorely lacking, and this is my attempt to fill that void. Please note that although this is not Namaste Mike and Nanaba, they do a lot of the same things in the Namaste-verse, including but not limited to actually having those babies they talk about at the end.


End file.
